


You Think I'm Done, I've Just Begun

by ChemFishee



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 2010 Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I thought you deleted this?"</p><p>"No. You asked me to. I didn't."<br/>(February 2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Think I'm Done, I've Just Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Title from K. Flay's "No Duh."
> 
> (Comment!Fic originally posted here.)

Brad's trying to work within his means. Really. He's a fucking Marine; he makes do. But back to the 'fucking' part...  
  
Nate is sprawled all over the couch, the fingers of one hand resting loosely inside the waistband of his pants. His eyes dart briefly to Brad standing in the doorway before returning to focus on whatever was on the TV. He is breathing through his mouth, his freshly bitten raw mouth.  
  
There is an unmistakable moan from the TV and the slick slap of skin-on-skin. Brad quirks an eyebrow. "I'm gone for twenty minutes and you already replace me with porn."  
  
Nate huffs a sigh, and his hand drifts even lower. He looks a challenge at Brad, waiting.  
  
It's cruel, yes. But it's also got Brad's interest piqued. He walks into the room to get a better view of whatever it is that Nate's watching.  
  
And whatever he was expecting, it's not what's on screen. Their collection tends to run towards the vaguely-amateurish-yet-still-studio-produced. This is... This is definitely amateur.  
  
Recognition flashes lightning quick in Brad's mind as he sees the multicolored edge of a tattoo crawl into frame.  
  
"I thought you deleted this?"  
  
"No. You asked me to. I didn't." Brad hears the catch in Nate's voice as he watches himself from two months ago lay facedown on top of their bed that's still upstairs and spread his legs. Nate's hands appear on camera to rub him from ribs to thighs, encouraging him to open even further.  
  
Brad doesn't even realize he's moved until he hears Nate whine at him to get out of the fucking way. When he looks over his shoulder, Nate's halfway to hard and his hand is working inside his pants. Brad spares one last glance at the TV before dropping to his knees and crawling between the couch and coffee table.  
  
Nate's caught between watching Brad on screen writhe as Nate's tongue breaches him and watching Brad in the here-and-now stop his hand and pull it out of his pants by his wrist.  
  
Brad doesn't say anything, just crawls closer to the couch. He's going to feel this tomorrow. He leans to sit back on his heels... And ends up with the corner of the coffee table digging into the middle of is spine.  
  
"Motherfucker!"  
  
"You okay?"  
  
Brad pushes the coffee table out of the way angrily, knocking over Nate's piles of notes on whatever briefs he was supposed to be working on before dinner. "Fine."  
  
Nate tries to push himself up on his elbows, but Brad stops him with a quick, terse, "Stay!"  
  
Brad catches a flash of Nate on screen raising a hand and bringing it down with a perfunctory swat. He winces as he kneels up again - and he is _really_ gonna feel that tomorrow - and starts tugging on the waistband of Nate's pants.  
  
"Right, where was I?"

Nate's eyes are half-lidded as he watches Brad pop the button on his pants. He knows with absolute certainty that Brad knows how to work the zipper down without the teeth dragging along his cock - he's _assured_ of this - but he still feels his breath catch and hold in his lungs.  
  
Brad knows. _Of course_ he fucking knows. He's smirking as he presses the heel of his palm into Nate's hard-on. His fingers brush over Nate's balls, and Nate can't stop the high, keening whine that catches in the back of his throat. Brad grinds his hand a fraction harder, and Nate's head thunks off the arm of the couch.  
  
Brad doesn't order him to keep watching the porn. But he doesn't make any move to turn it off.  
  
Brad on the screen has rolled over, his dick swollen and red and curved to his belly, slightly to the left. There's a flush spreading down his sternum and sweat pooling in his clavicle. Nate isn't on screen.  
  
Nate can feel the moist heat of Brad's mouth mingling over the wet spot growing on the front of his briefs. His hips jerk upwards, reflexively seeking like some homing beacon between Nate's cock and Brad's mouth. He's rewarded with Brad pinning him to the couch with an arm laid across his belly and a stinging nip to the inside of his thigh.  
  
"Stay."  
  
Nate's never been especially good at following orders he doesn't agree with. Yet his palms burn with half-moon indentations as he fights to keep himself from out and out fucking Brad's mouth.  
  
His eyes drift back to the TV, where Brad is licking a stripe along his own palm. His hand skates down his ribs and then he's fisting himself in a slow jack.  
  
Brad in the here and now has worked Nate's pants and briefs down his thighs. Nate's ass is sticking to the leather as sweat breaks out along his over-sensitized flesh. Brad's free hand grips the base of Nate's cock, and then he's licking from root to tip, perfectly mirroring what he just did to his own hand on the video.  
  
Nate doesn't talk during sex. He's always found it foolish and vaguely embarassingly ridiculous. But Nate does moan his appreciation loudly.  
  
Brad presses his lips to the side of Nate's dick, _hmmm_ s his agreement, and then swallows his first mouthful of cock.  
  
Brad on screen is tightening his grip as his hips start to rise to meet his fist on the downstroke.

Nate feels the sticky slide of saliva mingling with the sweat spreading between his hips and Brad's arm. Brad _can_ give head like a pro, but the first time he did it to Nate, Nate freaked out about the sterility of it all. Brad has quickly relearned how to be sloppy, _be human_. Nate can feel Brad speed up, his hand starting to move in counterpoint to his bobbing head.  
  
He's trying to time it to get Nate off simultaneously with Brad masturbating on the TV.  
  
It doesn't work.  
  
Brad's panting in surround sound and mumbling something indecipherable as his hands flies through an upstroke, twists at the crown, and pulls on the downstroke. He's coming white-hot in seconds, thick splotches landing on his belly, hips and thighs.  
  
Brad's got his mouth stuck around the head of Nate's dick and is jacking him with spit. He's sucking harder and harder, hollowing his cheeks and his hand twists and strokes along. Nate can feel his orgasm pooling liquid and hot at the base of his spine.  
  
Nate has crawled up Brad's body on the screen, pausing to lick the rapidly drying spots of come. Brad's watching him through half-lidded eyes, still twitching through aftershocks but too sex-stupid to stop Nate from torturing his over-sensitized flesh.  
  
Brad's bobbing his head again, sucking hard and working his hand faster and faster. Nate couldn't tell you what it is, the sight of them together on the screen as Nate reaches for a bottle of lube or the sounds of Brad wetly sucking air and him or the fingers pressing into his perineum, that sparks along his spine.  
  
He unclenches one fist and rubs his fingers over Brad's scalp. Brad raises his eyes up Nate's body to his face, wide and pupil-blown. And then Nate's coming and Brad's struggling to swallow every last drop.  
  
It takes a good few minutes before Nate can speak without his voice flowing like molasses over glass, fucked-out and lazily catching on the edges. "I'll delete it tonight, I promise."  
  
Nate winces as Brad peels his head off Nate's thigh. His hand curls around Nate's hip and squeezes. "No, don't do that."


End file.
